


Fire at Midnight

by grumpyphoenix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: John Winchester is dead, and over his brother's strong objections, Dean goes to sort through his belongings and say goodbye. His father's house is in an improbably sweet town that grows creepier by the moment, and Dean cannot stop having the weirdest dreams about when he and Sam kids, and the strange kid with tousled dark hair who seemed to have disappeared.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my amazingly patient artist Peanutbutterthenjelly, who has done some great art you can see here: [On Peanutbuterthenjelly's Tumblr](http://peanutbutterthenjelly.tumblr.com/post/157693378327/fire-at-midnight-story-by-grumpyphoenix-art-by)
> 
> Thank you also to Mr. Phoenix who beta'd this when I needed help so very badly.

I believe in fires at midnight  
When the dogs have all been fed.  
A golden toddy on the mantle  
A broken gun beneath the bed.  
Silken mist outside the window.  
Frogs and newts slip in the dark  
Too much hurry ruins the body.  
I'll sit easy, fan the spark  
Kindled by the dying embers  
Of another working day.  
Go upstairs, take off your makeup  
Fold your clothes neatly away.  
Me, I'll sit and write this love song  
As I all too seldom do  
Build a little fire this midnight.  
It's good to be back home with you.

__

> _Screams. The kind of screams that Dean had only heard in the horror movies he sneaks on cable when no one is home (never again, he’s so sorry, he didn’t mean to be bad, never again). Screams that sound like someone is afraid, so very afraid and hurt; he knows though that it is the monster screaming because it is hungry (angry, hurt, he stabbed it with a shiny silver letter opener, and it opened its mouth and its eyes turned yellow and it **screamed** …). Sam’s hand is small in his, and he is running. The woods are dark, and his feet hurt, Sam has his shoes, he made Sam wear his shoes. The screams are coming closer, Dean has blood all over himself (blood sprayed across his face, it got in his mouth, his **mouth** ), and it smells so bad, like Dean fell in something already weeks dead. “This way,” the voice tells him urgently, the once gentle blue (yellow, glowing yellow, it had yellow) eyes of the small dark haired boy now scared and wide.“Come on, it can’t come through here!”
> 
> Dean pushes the other boy through a hole in a fence, and then Sam, Sam who is crying and can’t stop, and now Dean is trying to get through the hole, but it’s so small, and the screaming is right behind him….
> 
> _

*****

Dean hits the mat for the third time. He feels a lightning bolt of pain go through his right shoulder, and all his air escapes in a whoosh. When he opens his eyes, Sam’s face peers down at him, one eyebrow lifted in amusement. 

“Shaddup,” He snaps, slapping away Sam’s offered hand. Dean hauls himself to his feet and Sam outright chuckles this time, which doesn’t improve his mood. He’s tired and in pain, covered in sweat but still not able to get the nightmares out of his system. 

“One more time,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ignoring the pain that goes shooting through them. Sam shakes his head. 

“Nah. I have to go, and besides which, you’re off your game today. If we do it again, you could actually get hurt this time. Don’t think I didn’t see you limping. Even if you hadn’t just screwed up your shoulder, your feet need a rest. What’s going on, Dean, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.” 

Dean bites back a protest and rotates his arm, trying not to wince. Sam’s right, he just wishes he didn’t have to admit it. Grabbing his bag off the floor, he shrugs the concern off wordlessly. If he starts talking about the dreams, he might not stop, and Sam thinks they are gone for good. Best to leave him out of it and let his psychologist bear the burden instead. 

Sam sighs. “Well, at least see your physical therapist. I’d hate to find a new sparring partner because you stubborned your way into a real injury.” Dean uses his good arm to clap Sam on the back. “You know me so well, Sammy. Fine, I’ll go, if only to spare myself the weeks of you hovering around and clucking at me.” He barges through the locker room door, grinning at the faint “It’s Sam…” from behind him. 

*****

__

> _“You haven’t had a dream like this in years, have you?” The doctor asks, playing with her silver pen. She’s clicking the cap on and off, off and on.
> 
> Dean’s fingers tighten on the small amulet stashed securely in his pocket, obsessively tracing the small horns that jut out from the face. 
> 
> “No, no I haven’t. I’ve been thinking about my father a lot, maybe that’s it. Bobby sent me this mail about how sick he was. A real letter, on paper, it was as if I went back in time. Then again, Bobby always did hate computers…” Dean laughs, but it comes out awkwardly high-pitched, and he knows he is sweating. 
> 
> She abruptly angles herself forward towards Dean. The light catches her eyes, and for a moment, they seem to flash yellow (yellow yellow it had yellow). “Dean…” her sugary voice drips suggestively into his ears, ‘What do you have in your pocket…” 
> 
> The room lurches, throwing Dean into her lap, and all he can see is teeth, and all he can smell is death, old death.
> 
> _

The bus lurches itself sideways as the driver takes the off ramp from the highway a little too fast, knocking his head against the window and waking him. He stretches, making his back pop a little, thinking about the nightmare. Dean isn’t surprised his subconscious had dragged her into it. Things between he and his therapist at the last session were weird; the energy strained somehow. At the time, he thought maybe it was a consequence of having to make this trip, but the more he thinks about it… 

The bus is driving now on country roads, and the sight of the sign for Sugar Falls chases all other thoughts from his head. Finally, he can put this all to rest. The bus rockets past farms, an artist colony having a fall art festival, and a big red barn with a sign proclaiming ‘Farmer’s Market! Support your local businesses!’ and an advertisement for hayrides. Once within town limits, almost every lawn has a sign begging everyone to vote to ‘keep it green! Say no to Walmart!’ They pull into a bus terminal, nearly running over a small knot of people waiting. The brakes squeal, and then there’s a blessed lack of movement. “Sugar Falls!!” the bus driver shouts back at the passengers, just before hopping out of the bus with a manic gleam in his eyes. 

Dean stands, wincing at the cramps in his muscles and the aches in his feet. This was one hell of a bus ride. Twelve hours, filled with erratic driving and constant shouting from the driver. He wishes he’d thought to rent a car, or borrowed Sam’s. He wished Sam had agreed to come, but his insistence that he ‘didn’t need anything from that asshole’ pretty much closed the door on that. He knows Sam would have come if Dean had asked, but then he would have to talk to Sam about how much he needs this closure, and there was no way they were talking about that. Dean hauls his duffle bag out from underneath the bus, and looks around him at the terminal. It doubles as a train station, the building being the kind of thing described in tourist brochures as ‘quaint’. From what he’d seen of Sugar Falls so far, it is a town that has little going for it but a lovely location and some very beautiful old buildings, most definitely a place that thrives on tourist attraction. The façade itches under his skin. He shrugs back into his leather jacket, wondering when the local cops will start giving him the hairy eyeball. He’s always rubbed hick cops the wrong way. Dean looks down at the papers the lawyer had sent him, and opens up his phone to call their offices. The less time he spends malingering here, the better off everyone will be. ****

*

His father’s lawyer looks like she belongs under some soft lighting in an old movie; hot in a classical kind of way, effortless and elegant. She definitely does not belong in this town. Dean shakes her hand with a grimace, suddenly and acutely aware of how grimy and smelly he is from the bus. Her eyes flick down to the amulet around Dean’s neck, and the smile she gives him grows brittle. 

“Mr. Winchester,” She says in a clipped accent, every syllable precisely placed. Dean never knew how much air he wasted when he talked before. “Your father left strict instructions as to the dispensation of his property.” She opens a file, tapping one manicured nail against the desk. 

Dean shifts uncomfortably, wishing again that Sam were here, even if it was just as a lawyer. “Lay it on me,” he sighs. 

Her lips curve upwards in a shark like smile. “You are to stay in his home for a month, Mister Winchester. Sort through his possessions, perhaps, or get a job in town. One month. After which, you will inherit the entirety of his estate. If you move out of his home even one day before, his estate will go to another inheritor.” 

Dean sucks on his teeth. “Who?” 

She stares at him, and he swears she hasn’t blinked once since he came into the offices. “We are not at liberty to say.” 

Of course. “Well, what about Sam? Doesn’t he get anything from this deal?” 

She reaches out and turns a small green desk lamp on, creating a pool of light that Dean didn’t realize he needed. When had it gotten so dark? “I’m sorry,” She says, “Who is Sam?” 

“Sam,” he repeats, “Sam. His son…my brother?” She continues to give him a blank stare, and he sighs. “Dick. Well, he can keep his estate. I’ll just take the twelve hour ride back. Sam was right; we don’t need anything from him.” He struggles to his feet. They throb under him. 

She smiles, and this time it seems to be genuine. She even has the paperwork ready for him to sign, passing the ‘estate’ on to whoever comes after him. Dean sighs and sits back down. He doesn’t imagine there’s much in the house to begin with, as their father never had two dollar bills to rub together; most of his money went either straight into a liquor store or into the hands of some shady guy at a gun show. Still, Sam would kill him if he didn’t read everything, especially since she seems so eager for him to leave without his ‘inheritance’. 

Half an hour later he is standing in the dark in front of his father’s house, hefting a thick envelope with too many papers and a bunch of jingling keys stuffed inside it. The irate lawyer dropped him off a few minutes ago, but he has been rooted to the spot, just jingling the keys around. It’s too late to see the outside of the house, but it seems enormous in the darkness. He isn’t sure he wants to go in, but it’s way too late to try to find someplace else to stay. Ultimately, he knows that it doesn’t matter, because the reason he did not sign the papers is here in front, covered in a tarp and parked not two feet from the front step. He traces the line of the car with a hand, circling her mummified form, barely able to breathe. 

Dean rips the tarp off, sucking his breath in at the sight; she gleams in the light of the Gibbous moon, lovely and perfect. After a heartbeat, he fumbles the key out of the envelope and unlocks the back door with shaking hands. Dean slides into the back seat, the overwhelming smell of old familiar leather filling his head; for the first time in years, he feels at ease. He lies down, stuffing his coat under his head and stares up at the stars through the back window. Gradually fatigue starts to take over and he lets himself slip into sleep. 

By the light of day, the house actually is improbably big; a huge rambling Victorian monstrosity that stretches up into the bleary sky. It needs restoring, Dean can see that, but he can also see that his father had put a lot of time and effort into actual repair and maintenance. He hefts the envelope with the remaining keys still inside it and fishes them out. There are two: one weirdly elaborate key with writing on it, and what looks like an ordinary front door key. 

“Okay, dad.” Dean shoves the weird key in his pocket to worry about later. “Let’s see what you have for me.” 

*****

Sam’s eyebrow raises. “So, there’s a legit Victorian house, but Dad only lived in a few rooms?” Dean has Sam on his laptop, and they have identical take out containers. Not quite the same as their usual Tuesday night taco fest, but Chinese is good too, even if it’s from a place called ‘Al’s Kitchen’. At least he gets to see him. 

“MMffyeah,” Dean talks through a large mouthful of Lo Mein. “This huge library thing, the kitchen, and a bedroom, except it seems like he slept in the library more than he did the bedroom.” 

Sam sighs. “Dean, just come home. I can arrange to have the Impala shipped. We just sell the house as is, and let the new owners deal with getting rid of whatever is inside it. Are you even sleeping? You look exhausted.” 

Dean bounces his eyebrows. “Are you even sleeping? I saw your girlfriend in the background there, Sammy. How’s the living together going?” 

Sam sighs. “Dean. I’m serious. Every time you see Dad you get sucked into his bullshit, and going through his effects and reading his diary isn’t going to help.” 

Dean rubs his forehead. “Look, Mom, I can take care of myself.” 

Sam looks like he might try to reach through the screen and throttle him. Dean sighs. “Look, Sam, I can’t leave. I have to…” Dean takes a deep breath, and forces all the words out in a rush, “Ihavetostayamonth” 

Sam can be very loud when he wants to, but so can Dean. The next few minutes are a fruitless cacophony of yelling, culminating in Dean threatening to end the call. 

Sam hisses through his teeth, “You send those papers to me immediately, Dean, or so help me....” 

Dean nods, his hands held up in surrender. “You got it, counselor. Look, Sam, I just need the closure. There are a lot of open questions.” 

Sam sighs. “Yeah, Dean, I know. I just remember what the last time did. It took you a long time to recover, and I’m worried about you. I’m going to juggle some things around. Call me if you need me to come down there, and I’ll be able to come as fast as I can.” 

Dean grins, “Aww, Samantha, you’re so sweet.” 

Sam flips him off with a laugh, and Dean returns the gesture. “Bye, Dean,” Sam snorts. 

Then the screen is black, and Dean slumps in the chair. He gets up and goes back around the desk. The carefully positioned laptop didn’t show the mess: stacks of books waist high and a huge bulletin board covered in papers and a rainbow of string connecting each one like a TV show about conspiracies. There are many faces pictured on it, some of whom Dean knows or has met. His father’s lawyer is there, and jarringly enough, Dean’s therapist. Sam would hate this. Sam would drag him home and make him go back to his doctor immediately, and then he would burn all of this so it wasn’t around to screw with him. 

“Dad,” Dean says to the oppressive silence of the giant house, “I wish I understood this.” 

*****

Every afternoon, Dean takes his father’s journal with him to one of the local diners. There are two. One tacky tourist trap, and the other that mostly caters to locals. Dean has no trouble picking out which one to go to; he simply follows his nose. 

It comes complete with a comfortably plump sassy waitress and a surly cook. Dean immediately feels at home, spending hours eating pie and drinking coffee. He unclips the pages in his father’s notebook, buys his own spiral bound one, and spreads everything over the table. He tells the waitress that he’s a writer, and she seems mildly impressed. Remembering his father’s code takes some time, but once he starts, it comes back to him like a nastily familiar dream. His father was … tracking people. Monsters, to his father’s eye, it would be a monster. He keeps calling them Doppelgängers, but a quick search online shows that is probably not really… his brain keeps shutting down. Sam was right, he’s dragging Dean back in. This time, though, there was no CPS to bring him to an uncle’s house. He’d just go mad and get put away. 

It doesn’t stop him from untangling the mess of notes though. He has to finish it now, he has to know what his father thought was going on. 

Occasionally the Sheriff comes by for lunch, looking him over with a critical eye, and a hard unsmiling face. His father’s lawyer tries to engage him in conversation one afternoon, all smiles and friendly chatter, but her eyes linger over-long on his work. Dean makes mon-syllabic answers and covers them until she leaves. That night, his dreams are too intense for him to sleep all night, and while he is fooling around looking for something to do, he unearths a pile of maps that his dad left behind. 

The legal paperwork talks about land. Dad bought a huge chunk of land here. Sam didn’t mention it, and Dean can only figure that Sam had been hoping to cash in on it, and didn’t think Dean needed a hike through the wilderness. The land corresponds to some maps in the pile, and it looks like there’s a structure someplace in the mix. All the other maps are of the rest of the woods that surround the town, all marked with unlabeled red x’s, but this spot has a big circle. Dean goes to the town library to look it up. If there’s a structure in the woods, it’s probably old. 

He takes the map with him, and speaks to the librarian, a mousy man with a stutter and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that he keeps taking off his face and wiping. The librarian brings him to the basement and Dean spends a long time in the dust, researching the history of the town, occasionally asking Mr. Squeaky for help. When he describes the area, he swears the man flinches. He’s given a set of records to look through, none of which help. 

When he comes home, his door is open and the papers are scattered everyplace. Nothing is missing, and the Sheriff seems disinclined to care, spending time reviewing his father’s board instead of looking around the place. Dean keeps a hand on his bag that contains his notes and the map, and stops answering questions. 

He begs off the nightly video chat with Sam, too tired to be managed tonight. 

__

> _“Ready or not, here I come!!” The kid with the blue eyes shouts. From his hiding place, he can see the boy searching and he grins. It was a kid’s game, a stupid game, but Sammy wanted to play, and so did his friend, and that was it, he had to play too. There weren’t a lot of places to hide in the motel room, so he was found fast. Clear blue eyes peered at him, and then he was inside the closet with Dean, a smile on his face. “Sammy can wait,” he whispers, and Dean grins again. He can’t seem to stop; he’s never been so happy. The boy hooks a finger under the leather cord and lifts up the amulet with a raised eyebrow. There’s blood on it. Dean touches his face where it has scratched him. “The horns hit my chin sometimes”
> 
> The boy touches his face and Dean feels warm, surrounded by light. He runs his finger over the place where the cut was, a small scar in its place. The boy looks down apologetically. “It always scars. I can’t figure out how to make it not scar.” 
> 
> Dean leans down and angles his head to see in the boy’s eyes. “Wanna get out of here? I know a secret.” 
> 
> Blue eyes and a smile, so trusting…
> 
> _

Dean wakes up curled up in a ball, weeping, but he doesn’t know why. 

A few days later, Dean decides to go for a walk to see this house. If he’s getting the runaround about it, there has to be something good there. He’ll take a picture of it and post it on a blog or something, and someone will have to know the creepy local ghost story that the librarian was trying to hide from the tourist. 

As he starts through the woods with his map, he discovers that it is an overgrown mess untouched by man in a very long time. The undergrowth crunches as he walks in silence. Even while being in that big empty house, it has been a long time since he has felt so completely alone. He hunches a little in his jacket against the bite in the late fall air. Sunlight, despite the lack of leaves on the trees, doesn’t seem to penetrate fully here, and so there is nothing to take the edge off the chill. He walks for a half hour, and is just deciding to go and figure out if the big fireplace in the main sitting room will work when he spots the house. 

It is old, made of ancient fieldstone with a roof made of broad, rotten beams, green with moss and mold. Some of them have fallen into the building, leaving dark gaps. It nestles up to a large rock outcropping that juts up towards the sky. He stares at the building with misgiving. He should leave. Right. Now. His feet don’t obey him, and he stands rooted to the spot, his heart hammering painfully. 

Fuck, this is ridiculous; it’s an old building, why should he be afraid? Something is moving inside the building. A squirrel, or a raccoon, or whatever lives inside abandoned places in the woods. One step leads to another, and he is moving. He pulls his phone out of his pocket with warring intentions: call Sammy, he’ll make fun of Dean for being afraid of a squirrel, take a picture of the building, and whatever monster (monster? Why did he think ‘monster’) comes out. He inches forward, and all he can think of is his dreams, those damn dreams. He can hear his brother’s voice, young and afraid, calling for Dean to come and save him. His hands flip his phone around and around convulsively. He’s at the door now. Jamming the phone into his pants, he grabs a big stick. Sammy is inside this house, and that means behind him, behind him is…something grips his shoulder hard from behind, and he leaps with a scream, whirling around and hitting blindly with the stick. 

Dean drops the stick in horror as his vision clears and he sees that he’s smacking a man who is on the ground, hands over his face and cursing. 

Crouching next to him, he stutters, “I…I’m so sorry.” Reaching out to placate or sooth, he gets shoved hard, and falls back onto his ass. Dean’s first good look at the man he’s assaulted is a blur of messy dark hair and furious blue eyes. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he spits out as he stands to loom over Dean. “You can’t just hit people with sticks!” 

Dean sets his jaw. “Well, fine, I can ask the same thing. You can’t just grab people!” He scrambles up awkwardly. 

The other man raises an eyebrow. “Well, you should get your ears checked; because I think you’re going deaf. I was almost shouting at you to stop.” 

Dean crosses his arms. “And why should I? You’re the one trespassing. These are my woods. Who the hell are you?” At least, he’s reasonably sure they are still the woods outlined on the map. He’s been walking a long time, and his Orienteering skills are rusty. How many creepy houses in the woods could there be? That is not the point though; it’s the principle of it. Who does this guy think he is anyway? 

Staring. The man is staring now, as if Dean’s grown an extra head. “These woods… they are yours?” his eyes flick down to Dean’s chest, then back up, the crystal blue of his eyes intense and sharp. Dean self-consciously stuffs the amulet under his shirt. It’s warm to the touch, almost uncomfortably so. The man’s eyes are making him nervous. 

“Yeah, so…so beat it.” Dean starts tromping the way he’s come, interest in the weird old house shelved for now. He climbs a steep rise and can hear the other man floundering to keep up behind him, clearly unfamiliar with walking in the woods. 

“You’re not John Winchester.” It’s an accusation. Dean grits his teeth and turns abruptly, causing the other man to flinch and almost slip back down the hill. 

“Look…” he gestures. 

“Castiel,” the other man supplies, panting from the exertion, the name coming out in a breathless huff. 

Startled, Dean gives him a long assessing look. He’s wearing a trench coat of all things, and jeans that look as new as his boots; bought recently then, and probably just for this trip. His hair looks…grabbable. Despite his inability to keep up, he looks athletic, filling out his new jeans quite nicely. Dean sighs and pinches his nose; do not get involved with weird woods guy with the familiar name. “Castiel, that’s a…I swear I’ve heard that name before. Look…Castiel… I’m not John, okay, John is dead. Sorry.” 

Castiel looks spooked. “How did he die? Who are you?” 

Dean gets into his face. “Dean. I’m Dean, weirdo. Dean Winchester. Now get out of my woods before I beat you with another stick.” He turns and begins to stomp off, registering the strange mix of utter disbelief and joy on Castiel’s face only after he’s walked a few minutes. Castiel does not follow him. 

That night, all his scars ache, and he take so much pain medication that he can’t remember his dreams at all. ****

*

Tonight it was pizza. Al’s Kitchen again, big win. Next week he was thinking about trying their sushi What the heck, he could only get food poisoning, right? Sam had pizza too, but it was more of a ‘pile of vegetables on top of some bread’ than a real pizza, to his mind. Their nightly video chat was going well, and Sam was in a great mood, chattering away about work and his girlfriend. Dean watches him talk, thinking hard. If he asks Sam, it will change everything between them for a while, but he doesn’t have any one else to talk to. 

“Sam, do you remember that night?” Dean bursts into Sam’s chatter without preamble, sweat springing out all over his body. He has to ask, he has to know. 

Sam stills. “Which night would you be referring to, Dean?” his eyebrows are raised, but there’s a dangerous look on his face. Sam knows what he means all right, but there is time to fix it, time to back out. 

He doesn’t back out. 

“The night we ran away.” He pulls out the amulet from under his shirt and dangles it. 

“The night we, the night CPS first…look, there was another kid there. A kid, I can’t remember him, but I’m hoping you do. I keep having these dreams about eyes, yellow eyes, and Sam, I don’t think it was what we keep pretending it was…” it all comes out of him in a rush, like vomiting, and he can’t stop talking even though Sam’s face is getting stormier and stormier. 

Sam interrupts him, both hands on the tabletop, leaning into the camera so that he’s almost out of frame. “His name was Cas, Dean. Cas, and they _never found him_. We didn’t run away, Dean, we snuck out to play, and some asshole chases us through the woods and grabbed him. You know this, you already **know** this, you’ve been working with your therapist on this.” 

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t trust her.” 

Sam snorts. “You don’t trust her. Of course not. Why, is she a monster?” 

Dean purses his lips, and Sam looks terrified and angry both. 

“We escaped. And when we got back, Dad beat you so badly that you need still physical therapy now, and they _never found him _. Cas was gone.”__

Dean jumps, twisting the amulet around in his hands nervously. “No, Sam, there was a monster. I think there still is. Dad was onto this whole network of them. You weren’t there at that house, there was something in it…” His voice sounds feeble even to him, but he has to try. 

Sam growls. “I am coming to get you. This ends now. I knew letting you back into Dad’s world would be a bad idea. You are going back to see your therapist, and you are going back on your medication, because this is too much.” 

Sam slams the laptop closed on his end, making Dean wince, and then the lights flicker and turn off. 

After a heartbeat, there’s a knock at the door. 

Dean briefly considers waiting until they go away, but gets to his feet, shaking his head. What the actual fuck is wrong with him. Fuck, Sam is right; he has totally lost his shit out here. 

The Sheriff is on the porch with the estate lawyer. Her lips curve into a wide, insincere smile. “Dean.” She holds up a folder. “Can we come in? We have some things to discuss.” 

Dean takes an involuntary step backwards. “Not a good time.” 

The Sheriff narrows his eyes at Dean, and holds up a picture of Castiel. It’s been taken from far away, and he looks, well, dangerous. That ridiculous trench coat is flaring out behind him, and he is walking with a murderous kind of purpose down an abandoned street, carrying a weird, overly shiny sword, of all things. He should tell them. Sam would tell them. He opens and closes his mouth, looking at them both. Sam would tell them, and he could either believe what Sam had to say, or believe in himself. Sam wanted desperately for everything to make sense. Dean was weak. Their father had been insane. 

Dean squares his shoulders, “I haven’t seen him. Is he the man who broke into my house?” 

The Sheriff bristles and takes a step forward, but the lawyer intervenes. “Mr. Winchester, if you’ll let us in….” 

Dean steps out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. The lights are still out in the house, and the sky is very dark; clouds obscuring the moon and stars. A chilly wind picks up. He can see their faces only by the light of the solar lamps lining the pathway to the house, but he can see movement behind them, somewhere in the trees. His amulet is hot against his skin. 

“I don’t think so. What do you want, exactly?” 

The Sherriff makes a growling noise. “I think we should just maim him and be done with it. The Nephilim will come for him, and then we can kill them both.” The lawyer touches his arm soothingly, and looks back up at Dean with that damned smile. The movement behind them clarifies from indistinct shadow into the shape of a person. Dean takes the amulet out from under his shirt. It’s so hot that it’s glowing now, and it has left a small blister on his skin. He looks at it wonderingly, and the lawyer purses her lips together. 

“Well, Mr. Winchester, there you have it. I would have preferred to stay anonymous a little while longer, but Earle here is just so impulsive. If you tell us where he is, we can avoid any harm coming to you. “ 

Dean kicks her, knocking her off the stairs and onto her back on the path. Earle literally howls, his eyes shifting into glowing yellow nightmares, launching himself at Dean. They fall back into the door, breaking the latch. Dean falls hard on his back in the entryway. Earle’s fingers change into claws that rake across his face and his chest. Dean punches him in the face and then grabs his arms, trying to shift into a position where he’s not flat on the floor. The amulet burns through the leather holding it and hits the floor next to him with a heavy thunk. He can hear screaming outside, and then a long trailing howl. Earle becomes enraged, his face distorting and lengthening, his jaw filing with gigantic fangs. He lunges forward with a renewed strength, intending to bite Dean’s exposed throat. 

The point of a long silver sword emerges from his chest, spraying Dean with blood, and Earle collapses on top of him. 

The world seems to pivot and spin for a few breathless moments, and then he’s being helped out from under the former Sheriff’s bulk by Castiel. 

His coat is torn and covered in blood. Dean frantically pats him down, looking for injuries, cuts, something to fix, until Castiel sits him gently down in one of his father’s preposterously large overstuffed chairs. Dean drinks whatever is in the glass that’s been pressed into his hand, coughing and sputtering his way back into the moment. Castiel has his hands on Dean’s throat. Dean feels warm and safe, surrounded by light. The hands slip down his chest, and then they are gone. Dean mourns their loss. 

Castiel looks apologetic. “You’ll have scars. I can’t ever seem to keep it from scarring. ” 

Dean makes his head spin by sitting up too fast and grasping at Castiel’s hands, “Cas. That was you, that, that boy in my dreams. I remember you. You’re real. The monsters are real. We went…I wanted to show you this tree fort, and then…Cas, where have you been?” 

Castiel sits hard on the floor in front of him and covers his face in his hands. ****

*

They sit on the floor in Dean’s room together, drinking aromatic tea out of huge mugs, surrounded by candlelight. 

“All three of us went to the treehouse in the woods behind the motel,” Castiel begins. “It was cool. We looked at comics, and ate candy you had stolen from the drug store. You were watching Sam, and your dad had said to stay indoors, but you wanted to go out. ” 

“We heard him looking for us!” Dean breaks in, “My dad, so we…we left.” 

Castiel nods. “You were in a panic, and you said something about your amulet hurting you. You were so afraid of John…. we climbed down and tried to get to the motel, but there were these men. Well… monsters. Your father was chasing them.” 

Dean looks stunned. “You and Sammy went through the hole in the fence, and it, _it got me_.” 

Castiel looks sorrowful. 

“It got you,” He repeats. 

“You healed me.” Dean says quietly. “My feet, you healed me. That’s why I have the scars.” 

Castiel looks into his mug. 

“What happened to you, Cas?” Dean rests his hand on Castiel’s. 

Castiel sighs. “They saw me heal you, and so they grabbed me and let you two go. John came and rescued me from this, this horrible basement… 

“John called them Dopplegangers, but that’s not what they are, not really. Dopplegangers in myth are warnings of doom that look like you, but these creatures feed on the souls of people, and then take over their lives.” 

Dean nods slowly, “Okay, this makes sense with what I was reading. Well, for a given definition of sense.” He runs his hands through his hair. He refuses to think about Sammy right now. “It doesn’t explain what happened to you…” 

Castiel wrings his hands, and looks at them for a long silent while. Eventually Dean takes one in his own and squeezes lightly. 

“They have a leader, and he’s dying. They think… well, they think if he eats me and absorbs my soul, that he’ll heal and then they will all…I don’t really know much beyond that. John always likened them to a cult. 

“So anyway, John said my mother was probably already dead so he stuck me with a hunter to live and then he taught me to do his job, and John would visit sometimes. We’ve been looking for their leader for a long time, and I guess John found him.” 

Dean strokes the back of Castiel’s hand while he thinks. “They called you a Nephilim.” 

Castiel barks out a laugh. “They think I’m part angel. If I am, it hasn’t done me any good.” 

He starts to waver a little, and without thinking, Dean pulls him close, slipping an arm around him. Castiel stiffens and then melts against Dean. This was a lot to absorb, and Dean doesn’t want anymore. Except…. 

“Castiel, do you hunt monsters?” he turns his face into Castiel’s hair, and whispers it against his ear. 

Castiel shivers. “I do. They are real. I am real. You aren’t crazy.” 

Dean says into his ear, “I know you don’t know me anymore, but I just don’t want to be alone, Cas. Stay here with me, stay in my bed.” 

Castiel turns and takes Dean’s face into his hands, kissing him lightly. 

“I was hoping you would ask.” ****

*

Castiel, wearing a pair of Dean’s old jeans and a sweater, is poring over Dean’s notes when Sam barges into the house. The stain in the front hallway where Earle bled out over Dean has a rug over it, but the door is still broken, and neither of them has bothered to right the mess that has become the front walkway. Dean comes in from the kitchen bearing a tray covered in French toast and various other breakfast offerings, a whistle on his lips that dies when he sees Sam glowering over an unconcerned Castiel. 

The explanation does not go well, until Dean shows Sam the bodies of Earle and the lawyer. Neither of them changed back to their human selves when they died, and after Sam throws up, he starts to listen. Then he takes over. 

They abandon both cars outside the town and set them ablaze. They set the front pathway to rights, and decide to deal with the stain later. They spread out everything and each one takes some research. Dean goes to Al’s as if nothing has happened, ordering pizza and wings for three (along with enough Greek salad to feed three more people), and over dinner, they figure out the rest of the puzzle. 

“So get this,” Sam says around a mouthful of his rabbit food, “They’ve been in our lives ever since. After we were put back with Dad the second time, they started tracking us. I guess they figured we would bring them to Cas. Though I don’t know how many people were really them and how many were Dad being paranoid. There doesn’t seem to be a way to tell who they are.” 

“I think I know,” Dean said, holding up the amulet, on a chain this time. “It gets hot every time I’m near one.” He’s sitting on the floor in front of Castiel, who is in the overstuffed chair. He leans against Castiel’s knees. 

Castiel threads his fingers through Dean’s hair. “And the house in the woods, it seems to be where they’ve hidden their leader. John bought a house here because he’d figured it out. “ 

Sam raises an eyebrow at them. “I just don’t understand how he could afford this. He’s never had money. All the times Dean had to steal to keep us from starving, or from going barefoot. I don’t get it.” 

Cas looks away uncomfortably, but Dean is the one who chimes in, “He sold Castiel’s ability, Sam. Faith healers all over the place paid him dearly for the privilege of exploiting Cas. Then he just kept it instead of spending it.” 

Dean runs his hand over Castiel’s knee. “You were right, Sam, he was a grade-A shithead.” 

Castiel makes a small noise, and shifts in his seat as a slow grin spreads over Dean’s face. 

“Gross,” Sam snorts. “Look, guys, we have to do this soon, tomorrow morning at the latest. As soon as those two are missed, we’ll be crawling with them.” 

Dean stands up with that grin still fixed in place. “Couch is all yours, Sammy.” He pulls Castiel up from the chair, and back towards Dean’s room, ignoring the exaggerated sounds of gagging from his brother. 

*****

The fireplace in his room roars. Dean lies propped up behind Castiel, one arm on his naked back, feeling him breathe as he sleeps. He watches the fire sleepily, listening to Jethro Tull on his father’s stereo. He can remember listening to this very song as his father drove through a city late at night. He only ever listened to the album when he was mellow or happy and just hearing the chords themselves were enough to relax all Dean’s muscles. He’d loved to slump in the front seat of the Impala and watch the neon lights go past, Sam asleep in the back, just he and his dad existing in the whole world. 

Tracing his fingers over Castiel’s skin, Dean thinks about how much time he had wasted in therapy, tricked by a monster into not believing his own memories. Everything had changed; he just had to decide what to do with his new chance. 

*****

He and Sam stalk through the woods quietly, old reflexes hammered into them by their father floated to the surface. They are following Castiel, who blunders less through the woods than he had while running, but still attracts undue notice. Dean has a shiny baseball bat, and Sam is carrying a long case. The mossy house comes up over the next rise, and he can hear Sam gasp aloud. The amulet is hot again, and Dean flips it over his shirt. Whatever was once sleeping within the hut was awake now. Castiel turns and looks at them, his eyes wide. He’s closer to the door, and as they hurry to catch up, the rotten thing is ripped in half by a gnarled and hunched claw. 

> _“John says here that he can no longer change,” Castiel was saying to Sam that morning over bacon. “So he’ll be in their changed form first, and harder to kill. Once they change, they are only vulnerable to silver.” Here he shows them the sword of silver John had made for him. Sam’s eyes slide over the gleaming metal with a thoughtful look in his eyes._

The beast flings Castiel several feet away, and he smashes against a tree, lying still. Dean runs the rest of the way down the hill, shouting Castiel’s name, skidding to a halt as the creature comes out of the hut. It squeezes its way out of the tiny doorframe, shrugging off the rotten wood and moss and breaking the roof above it. As it unfolds itself, it towers above Dean, howling in triumph. It’s a deformed parody of a human, face too elongated and mouth too filled with sharp teeth. Claws protrude from gnarled and crooked fingers, a muscular frame that somehow still seems bloated. Dean can smell disease on it, rolling like waves. The worst thing is the eyes (yellow yellow eyes) that send his heart hammering in his chest and spikes his adrenaline. As it pulls itself up to its full height, Dean attacks it with the baseball bat. 

__

> _The melted silver coats across the wood of the bat nicely, Dean making some kind of Terminator 2 reference that has Sam kicking him. Castiel, bent to his task wearing huge heatproof gloves and dorky goggles, quirks a lip at that. Looking down, at the pooled metal, he says, “Sam, there’s a lot of this left… I have an idea.”_

It has the grace to look surprised as the bat’s shiny surface hisses against its skin. Looking between Dean and Castiel, it sniffs the air, and then grins a horrible parody of a grin, loping away from Dean towards Castiel’s still form with a hungry purpose. Dean rolls into a crouch in front of Castiel, kneecapping the thing with a blow that splinters the wood under the silver, and causes a deep, earthshaking bellow to come from the beast. It falls, grabbing Dean with it, clawing and biting at him. 

He screams. He doesn’t mean to scream, but he can’t help it, the pain is absolute. It isn’t just eating his flesh, the thing is biting into his soul, and he can’t stop it. He’s going to die here, and he just started living. He can hear Castiel, back on his feet, hitting it with the second bat they made, and it gives a bellow of pain. There is a horrible pause, and Dean knows it is going to eat Castiel first and Dean second. 

There’s a shot, and another bellow of pain, and the sensation of being buried alive under a mountain of filth is lifted. Then another shot, followed by another and another until he slips into unconsciousness. 

> _Dean marvels over the gun. “Where did you even find this?”  
>  Sam shrugs. “The trunk. There’s a hidden bottom in there with a lot of weapons. We make the rest of this into bullets. You and Castiel keep it occupied, and I’ll set up with the rifle. Beating it to death might take forever, and I’m the better shot out of the two of us.” Dean doesn’t deny it, and besides, he wants to be near Castiel when he takes this thing on. _

Something smells awful, rotten and dead and wrong, but he can ignore it because he is being held in loving hands made of light. Something caresses his face and his stomach. A choir is calling his name. A sweet angel begs him to come back, and who is Dean to refuse? 

*****

“You’re going to have a scar,” Castiel says to him, leaning against Dean who is against the Impala. 

He isn’t just talking about the new one, which nearly bisects him, snaking unpleasantly up his stomach into his chest. Castiel hasn’t said yet what he did to heal Dean’s soul, but he suspects he won’t really mind. 

He kisses the top of Castiel’s head. “We all leave scars on each other.” He can feel Castiel laugh against his chest. 

Sam comes out of the front door of the house with his bag. “Dean, are you sure you won’t come home?” 

Dean shrugs Cas off him, and comes over to his brother, giving him a one armed hug. “Nah. I just got myself back. There’s nothing there for me but you, and as much as I love you…” he flicks a glance at Castiel getting into the Impala. “I just want to see what I can do with him for a while. Give hunting a try, maybe. Travel around. Live without fear.” 

Sam sighs. “Well, you have my number. Call me for whatever. Research. Fun. Because you want to.” 

Dean grins, and punches him in the arm, getting in the driver’s seat. Sunglasses on, Jethro Tull on the radio, he drives down the road.


End file.
